Madness

by Zac Brewer

  I sat there for a moment, hating that the doc was offering me a tasty treat of possibility and really hating that I was tempted by it. He couldn’t help me. No one could. “You think you have all the answers.”

  He smiled, seemingly charmed by me. I hated him for it, but liked him at the same time. Then I hated myself for liking him. “So, let’s get on with our talk. How’s everything at home?”

  Good. Back to business. “Peachy. Perfect. Rainbows and sparkles.”

  “Brooke.”

  “Let’s just say it’s being managed.”

  He frowned at my snotty remark and said, “How’s your dad handling things since you’ve been home?”

  “He isn’t. He spends a lot of time in the garage when he’s home, and won’t even look me in the eye. And my mom is watching my every move . . . when she’s not giving me chores to keep me busy.” I hadn’t realized that I’d yet to sit down in the floral chair until that moment, when I found relief in the fact that I was standing. I raised my voice, hoping to drive my point home for him before I got the hell out of there. “Is that what you want to hear? That my home life sucks? Because it doesn’t, okay? I have a typical family and a typical life.”

  “That sounds—”

  “Don’t, okay? Don’t say something all shrinky or psychoanalytical or any crap like that, okay? Because I don’t want to hear it.” I was almost shouting. I wondered if any of the people in the waiting room could hear me.

  The doc lowered his voice to a really calm tone, probably in an effort to chill me out. “I was going to say that that sounds like a pretty shitty way to treat their daughter after she’s just been through one of the most painful experiences I can even imagine.”

  I knew where this was headed. Textbook. “You mean a suicide attempt.”

  “No. Surviving it.” He held my gaze after he spoke, and I felt surprise fill me again.

  I stood there for a moment, and then took my seat in that damn floral chair. Who had picked this thing, anyway? A guy wearing khakis, that’s who.

  I looked at him—not his khakis or his office or the stack of board games on the bookshelf, but the man himself—and had the urge to tell him the truth. But I had to check something first. “You can’t tell anyone what I say in here?”

  “Not unless I find you’re in immediate danger.”

  “So . . . not my parents? Not my school? No one?”

  “No one. You have my word.” His tone was totally chill, as if he’d had this conversation before. Maybe he had.

  I bit my bottom lip for a second before speaking. “If you want to know the truth, I don’t like coming here, doc.”

  “I know you don’t. But I’m glad you are.” He sat back in his seat, not even a glimmer of hurt in his expression. “So. What about your friends? How are they treating you since you’ve been home?”

  I pinched some of the floral fabric between my fingers, avoiding the doc’s gaze. Being honest was hard. “I don’t really have any anymore. I mean, it’s not like I’m hated or anything. I know people at school. But friends? I don’t have any since I got back. Except Duckie, of course.”

  “I see.” He didn’t even flinch at my best friend’s nickname. “Have you and Duckie discussed your attempt in any kind of detail?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I’d rather not talk about it. To anyone. Especially him.”

  “I have to ask, but is he, by chance, a love interest?”

  That got my attention. I looked at the doc and resisted a laugh. “No way. Duckie’s as gay as it gets. We’re best friends.”

  “So you’ve no love interests at all, then?”

  “It’s creepy when you say ‘love interest,’ y’know. Sounds all pervy.” He wilted a bit at that, as if considering it. An image of that stupid thank-you note flashed through my mind. I bit my bottom lip for a second and then said, “There is this one guy that I just met. He’s . . . interesting.”

  The doc raised his eyebrows briefly. “These sound like some pretty positive feelings that you’re experiencing. And no matter how small those bits of positivity may be, they matter.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t say I had positive feelings. I just said I thought a guy is interesting.”

  He held my gaze for a moment before I tore it away again. “You don’t have to agree with me. I just want you to think about it.”

  Now that I sat and looked at it, the office was actually really well decorated. Even the floral chair fit in with the décor. I wondered if the doc had hired a decorator or done the deed himself. I still just hated it because I hated the idea of therapy, which extended toward everything surrounding therapy—even floral chairs. Even the doc. It wasn’t his fault that I hated him. It was mine. I was broken, and didn’t want to be repaired.

  The doc leaned forward with a look of concern in his eyes. “I have to ask you another question, and it’s probably going to be painful for you to hear it. You may not want to answer, and that’s okay. But knowing your history, I have to ask again. Okay?”

  Here it was—the question that I knew he’d continue to ask me every time I came to see him. The question I didn’t want to answer, but was ready to. “Ask.”

  “Do you want to live, Brooke?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly. Between you and me. It doesn’t leave this room.” On his left hand he wore a simple gold band. I wondered what kind of person would marry a therapist. Probably a really honest, well-adjusted person.

  I swallowed hard and said, “No. I don’t.”

  The doc sat back in his chair, his voice calm and full of gratitude. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “So . . . what? You’re not going to give me some bullshit list of reasons to live? Or point out all the people’s lives I’d destroy by offing myself?”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  He looked at me, and for the first time, I didn’t see some nosy shrink. I saw a man who had a family or at least a spouse, who wanted to help people. He wasn’t like anyone else I’d met through inpatient. The doc actually did give a shit.

  He said, “I’m here to listen to whatever it is that you decide to share with me. And to appreciate the fact that you’ve given me a moment of your time.”

  Suspicion filled me. It sounded too easy. “And if I don’t want to talk?”

  “I play a pretty mean game of Monopoly. You know. When my opponent doesn’t throw the board on the floor.” We both chuckled at that.

  “Hey, doc?” I wanted to let him know that it was okay, that I got that he wasn’t like the rest of the therapists out there—or how I assumed they were. It was the least that I could do after judging the man so harshly so quickly. He was just trying to help, after all. “Sorry I threw a shit-fit at our last appointment.”

  “Worse things have happened in this office, Brooke. Trust me.” He instinctively touched the band on his finger, and I wondered if he was in a happy marriage. Maybe therapists didn’t have perfect lives either. “Now. Tell me about this interesting guy.”

  “You mean my ‘love interest’?” I rolled my eyes again and managed a smile.

  The doc groaned and blushed slightly. “You’re right. That does sound kinda pervy. I’ll stop saying it. What’s he like?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  He nodded. “Are you still folding origami cranes?”

  Something twisted inside of me. I gestured to the Monopoly box and said, “Can we just play a game now and not talk anymore? Would that be okay?”

  “Absolutely.” The doc smiled. “But I get to be the race car.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  He looked at me as if to say duh and picked up the box. “Because I’m always the race car.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A knock at our front door the next morning startled me. Duckie never knocked. He usually just walked in and announced his presence. Sometimes w
ith show tunes. But that was Duckie.

  I popped my meds in my mouth real quick and rinsed the pills down my throat with some water from the bathroom sink. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, my mom was opening the door. When I saw Derek standing outside, I almost swallowed my tongue. His hair was messed up in the most perfect way possible, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was wearing jeans and boots again, but this time his T-shirt was plain black. I almost melted into a puddle, but I managed to pull myself together.

  Mom didn’t look impressed. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. I’m here to see Brooke.” He looked over my mom’s shoulder at me. “Hey.”

  For a long, drawn-out moment, I didn’t speak. But I eventually remembered how to form words. Even if they weren’t exactly smooth words. Even if they did make me sound like some kind of robot from one of those old black-and-white sci-fi movies. “Hi. There. Derek.”

  Smooth, Brooke. Real smooth.

  “Mom, this . . . this is Derek.” She gave me a look that said she’d pretty much figured that part out. She also looked increasingly suspicious. “We go to school together. He’s new.”

  “Nice to meet you, Derek. Are you a senior too?”

  “Yeah. The finish line’s finally in sight.” He shuffled his feet, looking like he’d rather be talking to anyone but one of my parents. I couldn’t blame him. “Anyway, I wanted to offer Brooke a ride to school today, if that’s okay.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could already see Mom puffing up protectively. She looked at me with an air of distrust. “What about Ronald?”

  I shrugged. “He texted a few minutes ago. The Beast won’t start. So . . . do you mind?”

  It was a bold-faced lie, but I practically had a PhD in bullshit at this point.

  With narrowed eyes, she peeked out at the driveway. “Where’s your car, Derek?”

  “We’ll be taking my dad’s truck, actually. It’s at my house, just down the road. It’s warm out and we live pretty close, so I just walked over.” He glanced at me and then looked back at her, shrugging. “If it’s a problem, I can just—”

  “No, no. It’s not a problem.” Leaning closer to me, she spoke under her breath with a warning. “Straight to school, then straight home.”

  “Of course.” I picked my backpack up from beside the coatrack and slung it over my right shoulder before stepping out the door. Mom watched us through the front window until we were out of sight.

  Derek whistled, shaking his head. “Man. She sure likes me, eh?”

  “She and Dad aren’t big fans of anyone right now. Don’t take it personally.”

  “I wasn’t.” He stared forward as we walked, but every few steps, I’d steal a glance at his profile. “Ya feel like going for a walk?”

  The question “Why?” hung heavy in my mind. Why would he write me that note? Why would he tell me about his suicide attempt? Why would he come to my house and ask me to go for a walk? “To school? You are aware it’s like two miles away, right? I’m not sure we’ll make it in time for first period.”

  “Who said anything about school?” He flashed a smile and winked at me. “C’mon. Live a little.”

  I bit my bottom lip in contemplation. Then I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Duckie: Do me a solid and forge a note for the office. If my mom texts you, tell her I’m fine. I’m taking the day off. With Derek. Deets later. I-L-Y.

  Duckie could mimic my mom’s handwriting perfectly and sign her name better than she could. He didn’t do it for me often, but I knew he would this time. And that would keep the school from calling my parents again.

  Once I hit send, I smiled at Derek and returned my phone to my pocket. “Got a destination in mind?”

  “Do we need one?”

  My phone buzzed, but I didn’t look at Duckie’s text. I already knew what it said. The Duckman didn’t disappoint. Especially not when mysterious, hot strangers were involved.

  We made our way down the road a bit before I turned and led him toward the park. It was one of only a few places I was pretty sure we could get away with skipping class. But before we reached it, Derek slowed to a stop. He bit his bottom lip briefly, something troubled filling his expression. After a brief pause, he said, “Hey, do you mind if we stop at my place for a minute? I forgot to feed my dog before I left. And he gets pretty riled up if he doesn’t get breakfast on time.”

  “Of course. Can I meet him?”

  The color washed from his face temporarily. With obvious hesitation, he said, “Yeah. Sure. Come on.”

  He led me a bit farther down the road to a dirt driveway on the right. It was marked by a rusted, dented mailbox. I could barely make out the street numbers on the side.

  Derek’s house gave me the impression that he and his family lived a nomadic lifestyle. Still-packed boxes sat on the porch in several careless piles. A few were marked on the side with the rooms in which they belonged, but apparently they hadn’t made it quite that far. It was as if his family was so used to moving that they were in no rush to unpack and get settled, only to turn around and stick everything back into boxes again.

  The house looked like it hadn’t been washed in ages. I couldn’t be certain what color the wood siding had been, but neglect, weather, and time had turned it a dull gray. What looked like a shade of white paint was peeling from the windowsills. An old dirt bike sat propped up against a tree in the front yard. A rusty truck sat in the yard to the right of the dirt driveway. The steps leading up to the front door were lopsided with age. All around those steps were discarded cigarette butts and empty beer cans. As we moved up the steps, Derek turned his head and spoke to me over his shoulder, without meeting my eyes. I could see his cheek was flushed. “Sorry about the mess. It’s a real shithole, but it’s all we can afford until Dad finds better work.”

  “Won’t your mom care that you’re skipping school?”

  “My mom isn’t around anymore. Not since I was six.” He opened the door and a Siberian husky immediately jumped up and placed his front paws on Derek’s stomach. Derek gave his head a few pats and told him to get down. When the pup tried to jump up on me too, Derek used a more stern voice. “Vikas, c’mon. Be a good boy and get down. You hungry?”

  I tried not to stare, but the inside of Derek’s house wasn’t much better than the outside. Vikas had clearly made a meal of one corner of the couch. The sink was full of dirty dishes. And everywhere I looked, I saw full ashtrays and empty beer cans. I was guessing that Derek’s dad wasn’t exactly the homey type. I didn’t pity Derek, or judge him. People led different lives, after all. But the way that Derek refused to meet my eyes as he got food and water for Vikas and the way his shoulders hunched up in tension said that he was embarrassed.

  I walked over to where Vikas was happily gorging himself and knelt down, giving his ears a good scratching. “He’s beautiful. How old is he?”

  “He just turned one. You can tell by his paws he’s gonna be a big boy.” Derek looked from Vikas to me, finally meeting my eyes. “You like dogs?”

  “I like animals, period.”

  “What about guitars?”

  “You play?”

  He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It looked like he was doing some quick math in his head. “We’ve got time. Wanna see my room?”

  “Time for what, exactly?”

  I hesitated, but only because we’d barely just met and here I was skipping school with him, and now maybe being coaxed into his bedroom. He must have noticed my hesitation, because he smiled and said, “I just want to show you my guitar. Scout’s honor.”

  “You were in the scouts?”

  “Hell no. C’mon.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk as he took my hand in his and led me down the narrow hallway.

  Derek’s room, in direct contrast to the rest of the house, was extremely tidy. There was a record player on top of a tall dresser, and beside the dresser, on the floor, sat a milk crate full of vinyl records. I smiled at the sight of th
em, thinking about my own record collection.

  Two posters hung on the wall. One was a black-and-white image of Johnny Cash flipping the bird. The other was a movie poster for A Clockwork Orange. Derek’s bed was made, and sitting on his small nightstand was an unopened pack of cigarettes; a Zippo lighter with the image of a skull on it; a DVD of American Psycho that was missing its case; and a small, framed photograph of a woman with Derek’s eyes. I could only assume that she was his mother. I didn’t ask. It seemed like such an intrusion to do so. But I did wonder where she was now.

  Derek picked up a twelve-string acoustic guitar from the stand in the corner and slipped the strap over his head. He sat on the bed next to me and started playing. I recognized the tune immediately. It was “Mad World” by Michael Andrews. I’d heard it when I saw the movie Donnie Darko and had loved it instantly. Derek’s voice was sweet, the song sad. He kept his eyes closed as he sang. When he finished, he stood up again and returned the guitar to its stand.

  “That was beautiful. You’re really talented.”

  “I’m okay. It’s kind of my escape from all the . . . Well.” He gestured around the room, and I wondered what he meant, but didn’t ask. “So what about that walk? We should get outta here before my old man gets back. He’s not always in the best mood when he gets home from the graveyard shift.”

  I stood up and followed his lead down the hall and out the front door. We moved down the driveway and turned toward the park. Derek kept glancing behind us as if he was seriously concerned that his dad might see us. Once we reached the entrance to the park, he visibly relaxed. We sat on top of a picnic table near Black River. For some reason, it seemed smaller in the light of day, with Derek by my side.

  “Sorry about rushing you outta there. My dad’s not the nicest guy.”

  I shrugged. “That’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” Derek swallowed hard and said, “He drinks. And when he drinks enough, he can be a real asshole, y’know? I just . . . I don’t want him to be an asshole to you.”

  I smiled. “I’m pretty asshole proof.”